


And what was dead was hope

by emocsibe



Series: Désespoir [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Past Character Death, Vampire Goodnight Robicheaux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27051604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocsibe/pseuds/emocsibe
Summary: Goodnight Robicheaux has been alive for longer than any normal man ought to be, and thus the hope to find something as unimaginable as love has long deserted him - and yet, love still finds him.
Relationships: Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks
Series: Désespoir [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974349
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	And what was dead was hope

_“Something was dead in each of us,_ _  
_ _And what was dead was Hope._

 _For Man's grim Justice goes its way,_ _  
_ _And will not swerve aside:_ _  
_ _It slays the weak, it slays the strong,_   
It has a deadly stride: …”   
  
Oscar Wilde – The Ballad of Reading Gaol

He is tired. Goodnight Robicheaux is tired, has been for centuries, but now, as the 1872nd year of the good Lord is ticking by he feels it crushing at his chest and head with such an intensity that is slowly making him mad. He feels alone and vulnerable – not that many things in the States could harm him, let alone kill him. He’s a legend. A veteran of a war that was started and waged by humans and humans alone; he felt lone there, but at least he had ways – terrible, soulless ways – to get a decent meal. Now, whenever he arrives at a new town, he buys the favours of a lady, the less popular the better, and pays her enough to let him near her neck, to let him drink and enjoy the tasteless blood. He hazily remembers the time when he felt the saltiness of it – but it has faded to nothing long ago. Now he only feels that it is warm, so very, very warm, radiating life into his stomach and into his heart. These dealings, however, are shaky deals on shaky legs: it takes only one word of the girls to another patron who is religious enough and he has to gather up and run for it. Not for his life, but for his relative comfort. While little nobodies like Hunched Joe from the tavern cannot harm him, they can still make life – or whatever it is he is living now – complicated and troublesome. So, before the Joes and the likes get to him he skips town and wanders into the nights and days of the unbothered solitude that follows each skip. He has grown good at it – disappearing into the dirty landscape, making himself scarce where he is no longer wanted or tolerated. He travels and runs from the very humans that call him a hero, a legend, a good man, a brave man, and he feels that neither is true. He’s not good, or brave – or even human – but he is sure old enough to be a legend. Not for his deeds in the war, though, rather for how he has managed to get by since arriving with the first settlers. He remembers the old days and he shudders; he has never called them ‘good old’ ones because honestly, they rather were ‘hard and are still too close to comfort’. But, he thinks as he pats his horse’s neck, trotting away from the last town, every day brings him further from it and that’s just peachy.

The new place he finds himself at is dusty. The road, the floor, the table – after he drinks some wine with dust in it he starts wondering if the people living here also have dust in their blood, too, because that would be just fitting right into the picture. He expects some trouble from them, some dust-filled bread, some bad piano music, but he doesn’t expect a man, leaning against the bar, sipping a glass of water slowly, clearly savouring it as if he’s had nothing to drink for too long. Goodnight sighs. He knows how that feels like and well, he wishes it upon no one. The man is a curious sight: his hair is long, far longer than what counts as proper, but Goodnight loves the sight. He remembers having long hair and he remembers how it just wasn’t for him, but damn if it doesn’t suit this young man. He keeps looking around the establishment as if expecting someone to pull a gun and start to wave it around at any moment. Well, Goodnight can’t fault him for that, folks in small towns have the tendency to drive away new people. Maybe they think that it leaves them with more dusty booze. Who knows. 

Goodnight keeps staring at the man and he is not surprised when he receives a glance from him. He is far from him but still, Goodnight sees his eyes and his lips pull into a lopsided grin – those eyes are dark and there’s danger in them and if there were no people, if there were no restrictions he set for himself a long time ago, he’d be next to this man in seconds, he’d be kissing down his throat, biting into it, pulling him closer and closer with every gulp of hot blood… He shakes at the thought and berates himself for having it for it is unlike anything he prides himself in. He has a nice control over his desires, over the primitive urges that led the others to their doom and he’s not ready to risk another hunter noticing that he is still here and in one piece. So Goodnight raises his glass towards the man as a greeting then turns his eyes back to the scratched bar in front of him, trying to imagine how those marks could have gotten in the surface. Seven lines in the wood, scratched with nails – but where were the remaining three fingers, he wonders –, a hole that must have been made by a bullet, a crack that might have been an axe, a hand that slides into his view quickly and quietly, black glove ending at the wrist, leaving the veins on display. He swallows.

“Can I help you?” he croaks out, throat dry with shame and anticipation.

“Just what I wanted to ask of you. Any reason for your staring, or do you wanna some trouble?”

Goodnight looks up and oh. Oh. Even if the idea of ever wanting trouble with this man would have crossed his mind, it would be gone now. He is gorgeous. His hair looks soft, his eyes are filled with determination and his mouth is set in thin, threatening line, and Goodnight forgets about himself for a moment. He glares without an answer and feels something that has become unfamiliar since his decision to leave the traditions and old whatnots behind. He feels the desire, the need to eat and the shame seems to be lesser than the want. He smiles and fights back the urge to let his fangs show.

“Cher, I could stare for the whole day but trouble? Oh, no, no” he shakes his head and extends a hand towards the stranger, hoping with his whole soul that he will accept it, hoping that his trust is not misplaced along with his flirting, hopes that whoever this is will either welcome it or will let it slide, hopes and continues with a small smile “The name’s Goodnight Robicheaux, nice meeting you here.”

The man eyes him warily, but after a few seconds, just when Goodnight’s hopes start to crumble, he reaches out and shakes his hand. His fingers are warm, and it feels nice enough that he almost misses the name.

“Billy Rocks.” 

Billy goes back to the glass of water he has brought with him and he drinks until the glass is empty, then signals the bartender for another. He turns to Goodnight, distrust still heavy in his eyes, but his lips do quirk up a bit, as if he was trying to offer a smile – or maybe a scowl, who knows, right?

“You thirsty?” he asks and Goodnight licks his lips, unconsciously letting his sight fall to the other man’s mouth, then his neck, and he feels his hunger so sharply for a moment he almost blacks out from it. He’s thirsty alright, has been for a month, and now, now as this man, this Billy asks, now it becomes worse. He wants a taste, a meal, he wants to suck on his neck and make him moan, wants to make him clutch at his shoulder, wants to feel his hair beneath his fingers. Goodnight breathes in the stale air of the bar so deep, he almost feels something in his chest again, then smiles at Billy and lowers his eyes – eyes full of hunger now, full of lust and if there is a small hint of fear there, he has his reasons for that, too.

“Oh, I am thirsty alright, but I gotta tell, I have something far better than the piss they sell here as liquor. Maybe you want a taste of it?”

Billy turns his head, slowly, carefully, as if considering, then – oh, then he nods and his gaze shifts down from Goodnight’s eyes, and he is still looking at his mouth when he drinks the remaining water, and oh again. Goodnight treasures his ability to always surprise his audience with some fancy words only a few know, but now, now he feels like a foreigner who doesn’t speak English and has just came across something magnificent he has no words for. He stares, the word ‘exquisite’ echoing in his mind as a cheap substitute for what he thinks, and he shuns himself for it. He shouldn’t be this enthralled with someone he’s just met, a stranger with looks that are too perfect for these parts of the world, but still a stranger nonetheless, one that could be more danger than pleasure, even if things go as planned. He watches Billy putting his glass on the counter along with a coin – their clink echoes in Goodnight’s mind and now he truly feels his thirst and he notes how his control is all but slipping from him – then Billy looks at him and he nods at the stairs. Billy smirks and straightens up to his full height – he is as tall as Goodnight himself, Goodnight notes, and he’s oddly pleased about that. He wants to think that he won’t remember the walk to his door, but he does – he remembers every moment, as if the world slowed down, he knows he will remember how straight Billy keeps himself while walking, how his fingers pass just above the railing, how he looks at him, with that sweet understanding in his eyes that this isn’t about drinking together. When he meets that look, for a moment Goodnight even forgets that this is about him wanting to drink – him needing to drink.

When they get inside his room and he locks the door, Billy grabs his arm and pushes him up to the wall and Goodnight welcomes the kiss that is given with passion and want. He opens his eyes after they end the third – fourth? – kiss in a row, and he knows that in the dim, dusty room his eyes flash like that of a cat and Billy looks straight into them – and instead of freaking out he leans back for another searing kiss. 

Goodnight feels Billy’s knuckles dig into his chest as the man grabs onto his shirt and vest as he pulls him closer, he feels Billy’s hair tickling his cheeks and he feels that he’s lost. He’s lost because he smells Billy’s skin and his blood and his hunger grows and grows until he breaks away from their kisses fearing what he’d do to Billy’s lips if his control snapped. 

“I’m so hungry, cher” he says, almost without knowing it, without wanting to say it, wishing he could be more elaborate and collected and less like a starved beggar “I’m so hungry and you smell so good.” 

“What do you want?” Billy asks, still leaning forward, hovering close to Goodnight’s face, looking at his mouth and stealing a quick kiss before he could answer.

“Your blood” whispers Goodnight and he raises a hand to wipe his thumb over Billy’s neck, to pull away the shirt a bit more “Your blood, it smells so rich, so fresh. Please.” 

“What if I want something in return?” 

Billy slides his hands to Goodnight’s vest, to the buttons and undoes them slowly, then he pushes the vest off of Goodnight’s shoulders, letting it fall to the ground.

“Ask.” 

“I wanna fuck you.” 

Goodnight only nods and reaches for Billy’s neck, but his hand is swatted away. 

“Before you drink. And you say it.” 

“Alright” Goodnight says, voice barely above a silent rasp as he unbuttons his own shirt and draws Billy closer “Alright.” 

“Your skin is cold” Billy says as he stretches out his fingers on Goodnight’s chest, tracing jumbled lines and shapes on the skin that can only be cold and that is pale as the dead. 

“There is nothing to warm it.”

“Maybe tonight there will be something” Billy offers as he leans closer and rubs his hip against Goodnight’s crotch, and Goodnight just smirks in return, canting his head to the side, waiting, waiting for the pleasure that is so rare but so refreshing – so much better than the girls he can openly flirt with, whom he can openly bring to his room. But Billy is here now, rocking against him, kissing him and stroking his chest, pulling and pushing off his shirt with haste. Goodnight raises his hands to Billy’s waist, fingers splaying out and tugging at his clothes, tugging him forward, closer and closer – and then Billy takes his wrists and turns Goodnight around with a sudden movement, pushing his chest into the wall. At that, Goodnight expects violence, expects exactly what every previous lover did after such a move – and maybe that’s why he feels shocked when he feels lips marking his back, kissing down and down until they reach his trousers. He shakes from the hunger, the want, the previous terror that only lasted a moment, and now he trembles with anticipation as Billy pulls his trousers down and strokes his ass with both hands. His eyes almost roll back when he first feels Billy’s teeth ghost over his skin, when he first feels his tongue at his hole, when he pushes back into the touch and begs for more. 

He loses himself in the pleasure while Billy prepares him, only falling deeper and deeper into it when he is taken right there, clawing at the wall, Billy’s body a searing warmth pressing against his back, his hands around his member tight and hot and too much. Billy breathes down on his neck, his nose bumping into the cold skin, into his sweat-dampened hair, and Goodnight closes his eyes when he leaves small kisses there, as if caring enough, as if not resenting him, as if not minding what is yet to come. 

Apparently, Billy does not mind it. They sit down on the bed, Goodnight half a second from leaning over to bite into his neck when Billy stops him. He presses a hand against Goodnight’s mouth, and shakes his head, hair falling onto his shoulders in soft waves.

“Not there. Too visible.” Goodnight’s mouth quirks into a smile beneath Billy’s palm – a palm that slowly turns away from him to offer up the man’s wrist, skin thin and veins a beckoning blue. Billy slides his other hand into Goodnight’s hair and leaves it there while the man feasts, carding his fingers through the strands to calm him, then pulling his head away when it becomes too much. 

“Thank you” Goodnight says, his mouth bloody and his fangs visible between his reddened lips, eyes shining yellow in the dusty air, looking at Billy with disbelief.

The man is smiling.

It is a kind smile. 

***

Goodnight does not need to sleep as much as a human, but whenever he shares a bed with someone, he indulges in the pleasure of letting go of his consciousness – if not for anything else, then for the feeling of waking up. While he was human, waking up was his least favourite part of the day, but since then, he grew to love it. It is peaceful and warm, homely and comfortable. He invites Billy to stay the night and the man accepts, although he eyes him warily for a moment. When they settle into bed, Goodnight drapes the threadbare blanket over Billy, checking his wrist again before shutting his eyes and listening to how Billy’s breathing evens out as sleep claims him slowly. It is peace, this moment, it is unparalleled peace that he has not found in quite some time and in which he revels now. He sleeps and awaits the morning and Billy’s waking with a reverence he thought lost, with anticipation that fills him with a low, coiling mist of warmth. The last thought before he falls asleep is that he wants Billy to stick around, for as long as possible.

*** 

There is an agreement between them two days later – two days filled with small, unsure smiles, searing kisses, sweet blood and sex that fills Goodnight’s lungs with fresh air -, an agreement that they will travel together for as long as they both wish it so. Goodnight can’t scrape off his enchanted smile for the rest of the day, not when Billy sinks down on his cock, not when he scrapes his fangs over Billy’s neck and certainly not when the man leans into the bite. He is content and this easy partnership feels like a long lost home, a small rest between the tremors of past and the uncertainty of future – Billy feels like a man he could love. Maybe he already does so a bit. But then, who could fault him for it when Billy is nice and compassionate, when his eyes are deep like the ocean and have the same dark black colour like his night-shade hair? 

They travel and Billy fights, Goodnight bets and life seems comfortable and promising for the both of them. Goodnight drinks and Billy shows him things that would leave him breathless if he still had to draw breath, things that now leave him without words; things he loves. He trusts Billy and Billy grows to trust him even more, and slowly, gradually they fall in love. It is Goodnight who says it first, who tells Billy how he feels, and Billy shuts him up with a kiss and a laugh and it’s so perfect Goodnight could weep from joy. Billy returns the sentiment some days later, after they have already gone to bed; murmurs the words into Goody’s neck as he is falling asleep. Goodnight doesn’t have the heart to wake him, but it’s a near thing. 

***

Billy pants and tries to even his breath before he sits up and pulls Goodnight with him into a comfortable position. With a smooth, gentle move of his hands he pulls Goodnight’s head to his neck, then proceeds to pull the blanket around the both of them. Goodnight tastes his neck, his blood, and Billy keeps raking his fingers through his lover’s hair. When the feeding is over, Billy sighs as Goodnight laps up the remaining droplets that escape from the wound and leaves his head there, resting on Billy’s shoulder. 

“Remember when we met?” Billy asks and his hands wander to Goodnight’s chest, thumbs ghosting over nipples, making Goody shiver.

“How could I forget, cher, how could I” he says and smiles at the memory, at the hands that are the same but their touch is so much gentler, so much more loving now, at how Billy leans down to kiss his cheek, how he laughs a little, sound rumbling through his body like thunder.

“Your skin is no longer that cold.”

“I have an angel warming it up for me, maybe you’ve heard of him?” Goodnight is silent, his words are barely audible as he relaxes against Billy “He has black feathered wings and a halo made of dark hair, he has eyes that carry the night sky in them and he has such a voice the sea would part for him. I have an angel who loves me and he warms me like nothing could in my lost centuries. I have an angel I love…”

Billy smiles against Goodnight’s lips and then kisses him, kisses him sweet and soft and slow.

***

Goodnight wakes up and for a sleep-dazed moment he thinks that if he leans over to the other side of the bed he will be able to kiss Billy, to kiss him like in the dream he just had about them cuddling on that autumn day, somewhere around 1870, but then, with a sharp pain he remembers.

He remembers Billy dying, remembers the decades, the century that passed, remembers his travels and all the places he couldn’t show Billy. He remembers why he avoids sleeping – but now, now he can’t regret it, for the dream gave back something that he thought was lost; it gave him back the memory of how his darling Billy’s kiss felt like on his lips. 

He closes his eyes and tries to remember – maybe the dreams will be merciful and provide him with another sweet, sweet and sad memory of his beloved. He closes his eyes and he feels himself grow even colder than usual. Oh, how he misses Billy’s warmth…

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this three years ago, together with the other two parts of this trilogy when I was consuming Mag7 content AND anything and everything written by Oscar Wilde for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and I got to finishing all three just now. Hurray I guess?


End file.
